Читать книгу Other Things Being Equal - Emma Wolf - Страница 9

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Ruth always dressed well. Indeed, any little jealousy her lovely presence might occasion was usually summed up in the terse innuendo, “Fine feathers make fine birds.”

To dress well is to dress appropriately to time, place, and season. Having a full purse, she could humor every occasion with a change of gown; being possessed of good taste, her toilets never offended; desiring to look pleasing, as every woman should, she studied what was becoming; having a mother to whom a good toilet was one of the most pressing convenances, and who delighted in planning beautiful gowns for her beautiful daughter, there was nothing lacking to prevent Ruth from being well-dressed.

On this summer’s afternoon she was clad from head to foot in soft, pale gray. Every movement of her young body, as she walked toward town, betokened health and elastic strength. Her long, easy gait precluded any idea of hurry; she noticed everything she passed, from a handsome house to a dirty child.

She was approaching that portion of Geary Street which the doctors have appropriated, and she carefully scanned each silvery sign-plate in search of Dr. Kemp’s name. It was the first time she had had occasion to go; and with a little feeling of novel curiosity she ran up the stairs leading to his office.

It was just three—the time stated as the limit of his office-hours; but when Ruth entered the handsome waiting-room, two or three patients were still awaiting their turns. Seated in one of the easy-chairs, near the window, was an aristocratic-looking woman, whom Ruth recognized as a friend of one of her Christian friends, and with whom she had a speaking acquaintance. Nodding pleasantly in response to the rather frigid bow, she walked to the centre of the room, and laying upon the table a bunch of roses that she carried, proceeded to select one of the magazines scattered about. As she sat down, she found herself opposite a stout Irishwoman, coarsely but cleanly dressed, who with undisguised admiration took in every detail of Ruth’s appearance. She overlooked the evident simplicity of the woman’s stare; but the wistful, yearning look of a little girl who reclined upon the lounge caused her to sit with her magazine unopened. As soon as she perceived that it was her flowers that the child regarded so longingly, she bent forward, and holding out a few roses, said invitingly—

“Would you like these?”

There is generally something startling in the sudden sound of a voice after a long silence between strangers; but the pretty cadence of Ruth’s gentle voice bore no suggestion of abruptness.

“Indeed, and she just do dote on ’em,” answered the mother, in a loud tone, for the blushing child.

“So do I,” responded Ruth; and leaning farther forward, she put them in the little hand.

But the child’s hand did not close over them, and the large eyes turned piteously to her mother.

“It’s paralyzed she is,” hurriedly explained the mother. “Shall Mamma hold the beautiful roses for ye, darlint?”

“Please,” answered the childish treble.

Ruth hesitated a second, and then rising and bending over her said—

“No; I know of a better way. Wouldn’t you like to have me fasten them in your belt? There, now you can smell them all the time.”

“Roses is what she likes mostly,” proceeded the mother, garrulously, “and she’s for giving the doctor one every time she can when he comes. Faith! it’s about all he do get for his goodness, for what with—”

The sudden opening of the folding-door interrupted her flow of talk. Seeing the doctor standing on the threshold as a signal for the next in waiting to come forward, the poor woman arose preparatory to helping her child into the consulting-room.

“Let me help Mamie, Mrs. O’Brien,” said he, coming toward her. At the same moment the elegant-looking woman rose from her chair and swept toward him.

“I believe it is my turn,” she said, in response to his questioning salutation.

“Certainly, if you came before Mrs. O’Brien. If so, walk in,” he answered, moving the portiere aside for the other to enter.

“Sure, Doctor,” broke in Mrs. O’Brien, anxiously, “we came in together.”

“Indeed!” He looked from the florid, flustered face to the haughtily impassive woman beside her.

“Well, then,” said he, courteously, “I know Mrs. O’Brien is wanted at home by her little ones. Mrs. Baker, you will not object, I am sure.”

It was now the elegant woman’s turn to flush as Kemp took up the child.

Ruth felt a leap of delight at the action. It was a quiet lesson to be laid to heart; and she knew she could never see him in a better light than when he left the room holding the little charity patient in his arms.

She also noticed with a tinge of amusement the look of added hauteur on the face of Mrs. Baker, as she returned to her seat at the window.

“Haughtiness,” mused Ruth, “is merely a cloak to selfishness, or the want of a proper spirit of humanity.”

The magazine article remained unread; she drifted into a sort of day-dream, and scarcely noticed when Mrs. Baker left the room.

“Well, Miss Levice.”

She started up, slightly embarrassed, as the doctor’s voice thus aroused her.

“I beg your pardon,” she said, coming forward and flushing slightly under his amused smile. “It was so quiet here that I forgot where I was.”

He stood aside as she passed into the room, bringing with her an exquisite fragrance of roses.

“Will you be seated?” he asked, as he turned from closing the door.

“No; it is not worth while.”

“What is the trouble—you or your mother?”

There had been nothing disconcerting in the Irish-woman’s stare; but she felt suddenly hot and uncomfortable under the doctor’s broad gaze.

“Neither of us,” she answered; “I broke the tonic bottle this morning, and as the number was destroyed, I should like to have you give me another prescription.”

“Directly. Take this chair for a moment.”

She seated herself perforce, and he took the chair beside the desk.

“How is she since yesterday?” he asked, as he wrote, without looking up.

“Quite as comfortable.”

He handed her the prescription presently, and she arose at once. He stepped forward to open the outer door for her.

“I hope you no longer feel alarmed over her health,” he remarked, with a hand on the knob.

“No; you have made us feel there was no cause for it. But for your method I am afraid there might have been.”

“Thank you; but do not think anything of the kind. Your nursing was as potent a factor as my directions. It is not Congress, but the people, who make the country, you know.”

“That is condescending, coming from Congress,” she laughed gayly; “but I must disclaim the compliment, I am sorry to say; my nursing was only a name.”

“As you please. Miss Levice, may I beg a rose of you? No, not all. Well, thank you, they will look wonderful in a certain room I am thinking of.”

“Yes?” There was a note of inquiry in the little word in reply to Kemp’s pointed remark spoken as with a sudden purpose.

“Yes,” he continued, leaning his back against the door and looking earnestly down at the tall girl; “the room of a lad without even the presence of a mother to make it pretty;” he paused as if noting the effect of his words. “He is as lonely and uncomplaining as a tree would be in a desert; these roses will be quite a godsend to him.” He finished his sentence pleasantly at sight of the expression of sympathy in the lovely brown eyes.

“Do you think he would care to see any one?”

“Well,” replied the doctor, slowly, “I think he would not mind seeing you.”

“Then will you tell me where he lives so that I can go there some day?”

“Some day? Why not to-day? Would it be impossible to arrange it?”

“Why, no,” she faltered, looking at him in surprise.

“Excuse my curiosity, please; but the boy is in such pressing need of some pleasurable emotion that as soon as I looked at you and your roses I thought, ‘Now, that would not be a bad thing for Bob.’ You see, I was simply answering a question that has bothered me all day. Then will you drive there with me now?”

“Would not that be impossible with your driver?” she asked, searching unaccountably for an excuse.

“I can easily dispense with him.”

“But won’t my presence be annoying?” she persisted, hesitating oddly.

“Not to me,” he replied, turning quickly for his hat. “Come, then, please, I must waste no more time in Bob’s good cause.”

She followed him silently with a sensation of quiet excitement.

Presently she found herself comfortably seated beside the doctor, who drove off at a rapid pace.

“I think,” said he, turning his horses westward, “I shall have to make a call out here on Jones Street before going to Bob. You will not mind the delay, Miss Levice, I hope.”

“Oh, no. This is ‘my afternoon off,’ you know. Father is at home, and my mother will not miss me in the least. I was just thinking—”

She came to a sudden pause. She had just remembered that she was about to become communicative to a comparative stranger; the intent, interested look in Kemp’s eye as he glanced at her was the disturbing element.

“You were thinking what?” he prompted with his eye now to the horses’ heads.

“I am afraid you would not be edified if I continued,” she answered hastily, biting her lip. She had been about to remark that her father would miss her, nevertheless—but such personal platitudes are not always in good taste. Seeing that she was disinclined to finish her sentence, he did not urge her; and a few minutes later he drew up his horses before a rather imposing house.

“I shall not be gone a minute, I think,” he said, as he sprang out and was about to attach the reins to the post.

“Let me hold them, please,” said Ruth, eagerly stretching forth a hand.

He placed them in her hand with a smile, and turned in at the gateway.

He had been in the house about five minutes when she saw him come out hastily. His hat was pulled down over his brows, which were gathered in an unmistakable frown. At the moment when he slammed the gate behind him, a stout woman hurrying along the sidewalk accosted him breathlessly.

He waited stolidly with his foot on the carriage-step till she came up.

“So sorry I had to go out!” she burst forth. “How did you find my husband? What do you think of him?”

“Madame,” he replied shortly, “since you ask, I think your husband is little short of an idiot!”

Ruth felt herself flush as she heard.

The woman looked at him in consternation.

“What is the matter?” she asked.

“Matter? Mayonnaise is the matter. If a man with a weak stomach like his cannot resist gorging himself with things he has been strictly prohibited from touching, he had better proclaim himself irresponsible and be done. It is nonsense to call me in when he persists in cutting up such antics. Good-afternoon.”

And abruptly raising his hat, he sprang in beside Ruth, taking the reins from her without a word.

She felt very meek and small beside the evidently exasperated physician. He seemed to forget her presence entirely, and she had too much tact to break the silence of an angry man. In nine cases out of ten, the explosion is bound to take place; but woe to him who lights the powder!

They were now driving northeast toward the quarter known as North Beach. The sweet, fresh breeze in the western heights toward Golden Gate is here charged with odors redolent of anything but the “shores of Araby the blest.”

Kemp finally gave vent to his feelings.

“Some men,” he said deliberately, as if laying down an axiom, “have no more conception of the dignity of controlled appetites than savages. Here is one who could not withstand anything savory to eat, to save his soul; otherwise he is a strong, sensible man. I can’t account for it.”

“The force of habit, perhaps,” suggested Ruth.

“Probably. Jewish appetite is known to dote on the fat of the land.”

That he said this with as little vituperation as if he had remarked on the weather Ruth knew; and she felt no inclination to resent the remark, although a vision of her cousin Jennie protesting did present itself. Some Jewish people with diseased imaginations take every remark on the race as a personal calumny.

“We always make the reservation that the fat be clean,” she laughed.

Kemp flashed around at her.

“Miss Levice,” he exclaimed contritely, “I completely forgot—I hope I was not rude.”

“Why, certainly not,” she answered half merrily, half earnestly. “Why should you be?”

“As you say, why should I be? Jewish individuals, of course, have their faults like the rest of humanity. As a race, most of their characteristics redound to their honor, in my estimation.”

“Thank you,” said the girl, quietly. “I am very proud of many Jewish traits.”

“Such as a high morality, loyalty, intelligence, filial respect, and countless other things.”

“Yes.”

“Besides, it is wonderful how they hold the balance of power in the musical and histrionic worlds. Still, to be candid, in comparison with these, they do not seem to have made much headway in the other branches of art. Can you explain it, Miss Levice?”

He waited deferentially for a reply.

“I was trying to think of a proper answer,” she responded with earnest simplicity; “and I think that their great musical and histrionic powers are the results not so much of art as of passion inherited from times and circumstances stern and sad since the race began. Painting and sculpture require other things.”

“Which the Jew cannot obtain?”

A soft glow overspread her face and mounted to her brow.

“Dr. Kemp,” she answered, “we have begun. I should like to quote to you the beautiful illustration with which one of our rabbis was inspired to answer a clergyman asking the same question; but I should only spoil that which in his mouth seemed eloquent.”

“You would not, Miss Levice. Tell the story, please.”

They were on level ground, and the doctor could disengage his attention from the horses. He did not fail to note the emotion that lit up her expressive face, and made her sweet voice tremble.

“It is the story of the Rose of Sharon. This is it briefly: A pilgrim was about to start on a voyage to the Holy Land. In bidding a friend good-by, he said: ‘In that far land to which I am journeying, is there not some relic, some sacred souvenir of the time beautiful, that I can bring to you?’ The friend mused awhile. ‘Yes,’ he made answer finally; ‘there is a small thing, and one not difficult to obtain. I beg of you to bring me a single rose from the plains of Sharon.’ The pilgrim promised, and departed. On his return he presented himself before his friend. ‘You have brought it?’ he cried. ‘Friend,’ answered the pilgrim, sadly, ‘I have brought your rose; but, alas! After all this weary travelling it is now but a poor, withered thing.’ ‘Give it me!’ exclaimed the friend, eagerly. The other did so. True, it was lifeless and withered; not a vestige remained of its once fragrant glory. But as the man held it tenderly in his hand, memory and love untold overcame him, and he wept in ecstasy. And as his tears fell on the faded rose, lo! The petals sprang up, flushed into life; an exquisite perfume enveloped it—it had revived in all its beauty. Sir, in the words of the rabbi, ‘In the light of toleration and love, we too have revived, we too are looking up.’ ”

As the girl paused, Kemp slightly, almost reverentially, raised his hat.

“Miss Levice, that is exquisite,” he said softly.

They had reached the old, poorer section of the city, and the doctor stopped before a weather-beaten cottage.

“This is where Bob receives,” he said, holding out a hand to Ruth; “in all truth it cannot be called a home.”

Ruth had a peculiar, inexplicable feeling of mutual understanding with the doctor as she went in with him. She hardly realized that she had been an impressionable witness of some of his dominant moods, and that she herself had been led on to an unrestrained display of feeling.